


Blue and Grey and White

by crossingwinter



Series: ASOIAF Drabbles & Ficlets [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:56:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Northern winters are altogether too cold for a Southern Lady.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue and Grey and White

**Author's Note:**

> I want to briefly take this moment to state that I feel very strongly about the nature of DubCon in all early stages of marriage in Westeros. Take that to mean what you will.

It’s funny to her--that their colors are white and grey. She’s never thought about it much before.  White and grey, a wolf on snow--idyllic really, a stark image for House Stark.

Blue was colder than white, and certainly colder than grey.  Not the blue of Riverrun, the blue of the rivers and the springtime sky--the pale blue of the ice in the crenellations of the castle that had not melted in months, ice which looked white in the dark, but glowed blue in the brief hours of the sunlight.

She hated the cold.  She hated the North.  She hated huddling with her son day and night to be sure--sure--that he was warm.  She hated that Old Nan was probably right when she suggested that Robb share a cradle with the bastard so that they would keep each other alive in their sleep. She hated that for all the fires burning, they never seemed to do any good.  She hated that the very walls of Winterfell seemed to suck the heat away, as if in absorbing the fire’s heat, they would be able to keep the cold at bay.  And, worse still, she hated that when she mentioned this in passing to Vayon Poole, the steward chuckled and told her of the hot water running through the walls, and how, without it, the old castle would be still colder.

Who would live like this?  Who could live like this?  Who could withstand cold so overpowering that it caused her hands to shiver even as she brought soup (lukewarm unless she drank it quickly) to her mouth.

“Your hands shake, My Lady,” Ned murmured as he brought his own soup easily to his lips.  There were flecks of it in his beard, and she wondered if they would freeze there.  How strange to have one’s food frozen to one’s face.  

“It is cold, My Lord,” she replied, wishing that she could keep her own words as even as his.  Was he so impervious to the cold?  Her teeth were banging together now, as though, once having been reminded of the cold, they wished to add their trembling to the rest of her body’s.

Her husband looked confused.  “Not so cold,” he said.  “Not nearly so cold as when I was younger.  This is a light winter, My Lady.”

She did not bother trying to bite back a laugh.  “A light winter--with heavier snows than ever I saw in Riverrun, My Lord.”  It had only ever once snowed in Riverrun, and that snow had not stuck to the ground.  She had grabbed Petyr’s hand and they had danced through it, snow catching in their hair, trying to catch the flakes on their tongues while Lysa watched from a bench.  They would have had to have been twelve, she thought, for that was when Lysa had fallen and broken her ankle…

Ned was frowning, great dark brows pulled down towards the bridge of his nose.  “I suppose,” he said at last, “that it would not have been so cold in Riverrun.  I had forgotten.  We had a great deal of Snow at the Bloody Gate when I was young.  Less snow than at Winterfell, of course, but bitterly cold with the mountain winds…”  He smiled at her, and this time when laughter bubbled out of her, it was warmer.  How like Lysa’s little dog he looked, hopeful and conciliatory when faced with distress. His was the precise expression that Marker made when he wanted his belly rubbed.  Ned, stripped bare and thrust into the room after her, the muscles of his abdomen dusted with soft dark hair… she flushed.

“My Lady?” Like Marker again, cocking his head.  Ned, holding her face and tilting his head slightly to the left, as if unsure from what angle it would be best to kiss her.  Had she truly not bedded him since they had wed?  The memories were so fresh...

“It is nothing, My Lord,” she replied stiffly, wondering if he could possibly know what images her mind had conjured.  “Memories.”

“Good ones, I hope?”  His voice was so quiet.  Always quiet--so very unlike Brandon’s.  Brandon, who had always been loud and cutting.  When he had come to Winterfell, she could hear him shouting in the practice courts all the way from her sitting room.  Ned’s...sometimes he was sitting right next to her and she couldn’t hear him.  

“Lysa had a dog when we were younger,” she said quickly, realizing that she had not yet spoken.  “A little thing.”

Ned smiled.  “You liked him, did you?”

“No.  Not really.  He barked too much.  But sometimes he was friendly, and I wished that I had one.”

“Why didn’t you?” Ned asked.  Why hadn’t she?  She supposed she’d had enough taking-care-of to do, with Lysa and Edmure, and Petyr, and Riverrun when their Lord Father was away.  “I never...I didn’t want one.”

How grey his eyes were.  She’d noticed before, of course.  When they’d stood in the Sept at Riverrun and she’d looked into this man’s eyes and wondered how they were the only shade of Brandon in his face.  She’d been astonished by it, in truth.  Ned and Lyanna and Benjen had all looked so very alike, dark-haired, long-faced, while Brandon had had fiery hair that he said he’d gotten from his mother, and how she’d imagined that she would give him fire-haired children with grey of eyes, just like Brandon.  But, though different in hair, Brandon’s eyes were grey like his siblings, like Ned’s and Ned’s eyes were grey as stone, as steel, as the wolf on his banners.  

How warm grey was, how warm, compared to the blue of the ice outside.

She shivered.

“Not so cold,” he murmured.

“Are you teasing me?”

“No.”

“Yes you are.”

“I am not.”  The grin on his face told the lie though.  She glared at him.

“It is freezing outside and you are mocking my chills.”

“Well, you are a Southerner.  It’s what we Northerners do in winter.  We  do have to entertain ourselves somehow.”

She blinked at him.  It was the first time he’d dared joke with her, a boyish playfulness covering his face.  How strange--her husband, who had been serious when first he’d brought news of Brandon’s death, who had been stone faced when he’d married her, when he’d put his son in her, when he’d come home from war with his bastard--how strange to see him smiling, to see in him a shadow of the little brother Brandon had been so fond of.  

“Well, you can entertain yourself some other way,” she said at last, looking away from him.  “I’m sure you will think of something.”

“I might,” he said, those grey eyes narrowing and Catelyn felt her stomach twist.  She knew that expression.  She’d seen it before.  Brandon had given it to her more than once, when he’d made comments under his breath about being unable to wait until they were married so he could rip her dress off whenever he liked.  (How glad she was that she’d resisted him.  How horrible it would have--oh, she didn’t like to think about it.)  And, of course, Petyr had given it to her as well, in his own way, never so confident as Brandon’s, but…

She wondered if Ned had looked at her that way--the woman who’d given him Jon.

She bit her lip and looked away from him, eyes resting on her half-eaten soup.  It would be cold now, cold because the room was cold, for all the fires roared and the walls of the castle carried its warm water.  

She wondered if she’d ever know true warmth again.  Would she forever feel cold in this place, even in summers?  Would she forever feel that the warmth her husband showed her burned less hot because he had shared it with someone else?  Surely whoever she was was far away.  She’d heard a whisper of a Dornish lady, of a suicide, but what truth did whispers carry?  Whispers at Riverrun said that her uncle buggered stableboys.  

And, as she picked up her spoon, she noticed that her hands were shaking even more now.  How odd.  She wasn’t sure that she could feel the weight of the spoon, though there it was in her hand.  She wondered if everything felt like air now--nothingness, while her mind was so occupied with thoughts of Brandon and Ned and oh, how confusing it was, for though Brandon was dead how his ghost lived on, and came to the fore of her mind when his brother looked at her that way.  And if Ned could look at her that way, while having loved another, perhaps still loving that other, could she not look at Ned while remembering Brandon’s laughter?  Would it not dishonor Brandon to forget him?  Or would it dishonor him to remember him while looking into his brother’s eyes.  

She did not say another word through the rest of dinner, and found herself disappointed that her husband did not either--at least, not with her.  He had questions for Ser Rodrik, he had a brief word with Jory, and even conveyed to Poole that there was something particularly delicious about that night's soup.  If he was aware of her discomfort, of the thoughts brewing in her head, he showed no sign of it.  The lightness remained in his eyes when he looked at her, and every time they did, she would look away, unable to bear it.

As soon as she was able, Catelyn fled the dinner table, fled to the room with the little boys, willing to bear even Jon if she could not face her husband.  The boys were crawling around the chamber that held their cradle, and Old Nan sat in a chair, knitting with hands so gnarled they looked like the roots of the old weirwood in the Godswood.  Robb, upon catching sight of her, pulled himself across the room, crying “muvver!” with delight at the sight of her.  She took him in her arms, and peppered his face with little kisses.

How easy it was to love her son--easy in a place where nothing as easy.  Robb loved her, and she loved Robb, and nothing in the little boy's mind would compare to her.  He may have fondness for Old Nan, or his father, or even Jon, but none of them were her, and she had never loved anything in the world so much as she'd loved Robb, the little body warm in her arms, the only person in this world who was a part of her, who bore her in his blood.

She held him until he fell asleep, humming songs to him, then tucked him into the cradle next to Jon.  Jon was still awake, and Ned’s eyes stared up at her, and she tried so very hard not to think of how Jon had the grey eyes she’d wanted to give Brandon, to give Ned, but Robb did not.  She pressed a kiss to Robb’s forehead and turned away, pulling her robe more tightly around her.  She nodded goodnight to Nan then made for her chambers, shivering as she walked and hoping that the fire in her room was built up well.  No matter what Ned claimed, it was frigid in the castle.  

She pushed open the door and stopped short.  Her husband was standing in the middle of her bedchamber.  He did not stand tall, not confidently.  His shoulders were hunched and he was biting his lip.  Then, as if realizing that he was doing it, and that she had noticed, he stopped and smiled sheepishly.

“My Lord,” she whispered.

“My Lady,” he replied, then cleared his throat, “Cat--you were cold and I thought we might…”  He blushed, red creeping up from behind the black hair of his beard.  “I thought I might join you for the evening.  To keep you warm.”

She gaped at him.  She didn’t know what else to do.  Did he mean what she thought he meant, what he had implied with that look over dinner?  Or was he, as Brandon had always claimed, true to his word?  Could he be true to his word when he’d lied to her and brought a bastard home?

He was babbling now.  “That is to say--the best way to stay warm in winter is to share a bed.  When I was younger, Benjen and I would sleep together in the winter.  More of a steady heat than a fire, more reliable, closer.  And I know that I jested earlier at your expense, My Lady--Catelyn--but I would not have you cold if you--”

“All right,” she said quickly.  Heat crept up her own face, and she crossed the room to the hook on which she hung her her dresses, and then began unlacing her gown (a deep blue, a Riverrun blue, a springtime blue).  Her hands were shaking again, though this time it was not because of the cold.  She knew he was watching her undress, and the thought of her made her nearly sick with nerves as her fingers loosened the laces at her back. She heard movement behind her and before she could stop herself, she looked over her shoulder.

He was not watching her.  He had his back to her, and was removing his doublet and placing it on a chair, then unlacing his breeches and sliding them down his legs.  She saw muscles cording on the back of his legs as he stood on one foot, then the other.  Then Catelyn shook herself, and climbed quickly into her bed.

The bed was cold, left empty as it had been for the duration of the day, and she wished she didn’t as she stretched herself out, lying flat on her back looking up at the ceiling, wishing that she could look at her husband, that she could be welcoming and cheerful and not painfully aware of how embarrassing this all was.  Not, of course, that her husband taking to her bed was embarrassing.  No, that was a wife’s duty, after all.  It was more that, well…

Ned climbed into the bed next to her, and lay flat on his back by her side.  She felt herself flushing in the dark, as he took her hand and squeezed it.  Oh, this was so much worse than if he had just come to bed her, to put another child in her.  This was pity, wasn’t it?  That she was some fragile southerner with nothing in her very being that could withstand the great cold of the North.  She could hear his breath, disturbed only by the crackling of the flame in the fireplace, soft and even and so very close.

“You’re wiggling your toes,” Ned commented.

“What?”

“Your toes.  They’re twitching.  I didn’t know if you noticed.”

Her toes were indeed twitching--the only part of her that seemed to be moving at all.  She was wiggling them back and forth, letting the blanket run over the tip of her big toe.  She hadn’t noticed at all.  She stilled them, and Ned chuckled.

“You can keep on doing it, if you like.  It won’t disturb me.  You wouldn’t believe what Benjen used to do while falling asleep.”

“Lysa used to crawl in my bed when she was cold,” Cat said.  “Edmure too.  But Edmure would lie like a log and Lysa would toss and turn all through the night.  She would get nightmares.”  She hoped Jon Arryn knew how to soothe those nightmares.  Catelyn had only barely been able to sometimes.

“Benjen would too.  And he’d growl in his sleep.  Although, I was never quite able to determine if he was asleep or just playing a trick on me.”  He twisted, lying on his side, arm resting against the pillow with a hand propping up his head.  Catelyn laughed.  

“I do not know which would be better,” she said.

“Nor do I.  So I’ve decided that I must, as is my duty as his elder brother, be sure to share it in the hopes that he will be thoroughly embarrassed by it one day.”

“I’m sure he will be.  Gods above, I don’t know if I will ever be able to look at him again without thinking of it.”  The image of Benjen, no older than Edmure, growling in his sleep made her laugh again.  She didn’t know why.  It wasn’t the funniest thing she’d ever imagined, that was definitely true.  Indeed, Brandon had put many more humorous images about the youngest Stark brother into her head, and she’d only barely laughed.  But now--she couldn’t stop.  It bubbled up, uncontrollable, and she shook with it.

When at last she stilled, she felt warm.  Hot, even.  she pulled an arm out from under the blanket.  “I’m warm now,” she said, almost proudly.

Ned smiled.  “I’m glad.  Laughing is the second best way of warming a body, you know.”

“And what’s the best?” she asked without thinking.  The words were out of her mouth and she wished she could drag them back in.  It was obvious, wasn’t it?  What the best was?

Ned didn’t say a word, he just kissed her.  It was a rough kiss, as unpracticed now as it had been when they’d first been wed.  But gentle nonetheless, save all the roughness. It was not so forceful a kiss as Brandon had ever given her.  It was tentative, as if unsure whether or not she would turn away.

It was so easy to let every ounce of anxiety she had wash away with the flood of heat coursing through her.  Gone were worries of his disloyalty, gone were thoughts of Brandon, gone were her own fears--there was only their lips, only the hands that were now gently pulling through her hair, the softness of his leg hair as she pressed her legs, her whole body, closer to him.

His hands moved from her hair to her neck, his thumb tracing a circle on the hinge of her jaw and she opened her mouth waiting for his tongue to slip in.  

It didn’t.

But it must--that was what made a kiss fiery, surely he would…But he didn’t, and, almost shocked at her own daring, Cat slipped her tongue between his lips and touched it lightly to his.

The response was instantaneous.  He gasped into her mouth, his grip tightening at her neck and she felt the beginnings of a bulge between his legs.  With a newly discovered gusto, his tongue traced along hers, pressing, pushing her own back into her mouth.

He seemed to sink into her as she rolled more squarely onto her back, his chest pressing against hers, his tongue dancing in her mouth.  How very real he was in her arms, solid and warm and delightfully heavy as he rested his weight upon her, not quite crushing the air from her lungs.  And yet, she found it hard to breathe, as occupied as her mouth was with his, her fingers tracing the length of his spine over his undershirt.  When she reached the hem, his hips bucked against hers and she it dawned on her just how close they were.  Of course she knew that he was lying in her arms, but his lying in her arms seemed somehow more innocent when undergarments remained where they were.  In rocking his hips, his undershirt had come to rest somewhere in the middle of his torso, and with every new movement, her own nightdress was riding higher and higher and it would only be a matter of time before--

He ripped his mouth from hers and with one easy movement tugged his shirt over his head, throwing it aside, and in that moment, she could see him fully.  When he made to drop his head down again, continue kissing him, she held up a hand, drinking the sight of him in.

He was more scarred now than he had been when she’d last seen him unclothed.  The one over his heart looked almost like a root coming out of the ground, twisted and gnarled.  She reached up and ran her hands over it and he closed his eyes beneath her touch, breath catching when she continued down and let her fingers splay along the panels of his stomach, mere inches away from his cock, which stood erect, bobbing slightly as he breathed.  It had hurt her when they’d been wed.  She wondered if it would hurt now.  She didn’t think anything could hurt more than Robb had.

Ned was still kneeling above her, his eyes open once again.  He rested one of his hands over hers and she felt the question in his touch, and it all came roaring back, Brandon, and his bastard’s mother, and the loneliness and oh why did it have to come back while she was warm for the first time in what felt like ages? Couldn’t she just love him?

“Cat?” he asked.  It wasn’t simple curiosity--that much she would have expected.  There was something else there, something deeper, as though he could see not just her face but the very nature of her confusion in her soul.

It was that, more than anything, that calmed her.  Whether or not she was a warm body to lie beside, he saw her as she was, clearly and tenderly, and what else in the world could matter right now?  The rest could wait, but Ned, here, wanting her…

She slipped her hand free of his and sat up, pulling her nightdress over her head.  The chill of the room hit her once again, and she felt goose prickles erupt on her skin.  Either Ned saw them too or he was less concerned with observing her body the way she had stared at his because his lips were on hers again, his chest against hers, one hand coming up to rest on her breast while she ran the sides of her feet up and down his legs, and, to her own surprise, gripped muscles of his rear.  

He kneed her legs apart, the hand leaving her breast.  She felt his fingers between her legs, against soft flesh, wet with anticipation, tracing the outline of her opening and then he thrust in.

It was not painful, though she felt distinctly odd as she stretched around his cock, flesh that hadn’t been used since Robb’s birth remembering what it was not to be empty.  He pulled back, and then slowly pushed back in, as though realizing he should have perhaps not moved so quickly with the first thrust.  His hips rolled, and his lips found hers again, hands resting on either side of her head and, as she grew accustomed to his movements, to the regular in and out, full and empty, she began to match his motions, up and down, in and out, and oh, how this felt good, why had they not done this sooner?  Her hands rose to his face, and she felt his lips trembling against hers and then, with a grunt, he spilled within her and collapsed against her chest.

As his breathing evened, Cat held him, her fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, damp with sweat, her own heart beating hard against her chest.

They stayed like that, warm in one another’s arms, slowly drifting off to sleep.


End file.
